Agelast
by elisedaae
Summary: Response to a Drabble Prompt on Tumblr. Agelast A Person that Never Laughs. Present-tense. Christine/Erik. Oneshot. Fluffy as my writing gets. Read and Review, as comments are much appreciated!


I wrote this little drabble based on a meme of prompts on my Tumblr, with words and different meanings being incorporated into a fic respectively. This one was requested by an Anon, and an Erik/Christine pairing. I decided on writing from a past-then present tense perspective, and from Christine's view. Enjoy and do review if you have any thoughts or comments!

* * *

 **~ _Drabble Meme_ ~**

 **Agelast** : A person who never laughs

The fire had subsided, flickering flames turning to sparkling embers and barely lighting the dim and strangely comforting space. She had been there, in this room the whole while, watching from her position on the duvet as Erik went about his evening routine.

After many occasions spent within his home, Christine had come to understand secretly, and to her own amused delight, that he had a nighttime routine that was so strangely consistent that it rivaled all his contradictory aspects. At this time, it was past midnight, and she should be in bed—but particularly tonight of all the nights, Erik has become so enraptured in the pages that he has forgotten to properly see her to bed.

It has become more and more humorous and she can barely contain her delight at him and his strange ways. Oftentimes Erik is not a creature of habits, and while he has his preferences, he continues to provide her entertainment by his eccentricities. She simply covers her smile so he does not hear her laugh, but never does she mean to mock him. For all his faults, these quirks make him much dearer to her, and show a side of him that goes against a perfectly-polished and cold demeanor. He ceases in these moments to be the phantom or her tutor of high expectations and focus, and becomes Erik, a man and more.

Christine has been staring about the room as her mind wanders, and now her gaze moves upward from her lap toward him. He is in deep concentration. She sees it in his eyes; those windows through which she receives her small glimpse of his face, and yet can tell his thoughts and innermost feelings in a way a mask can never cover. He is so vulnerable, right now...it occurrs to her (a mischievous flare of an idea) that she could even dare to come from behind and take the wretched thing—just to make her point, of course. Then she remembers his former reaction, and her own fear of his face, and thinks the better of it.

But it is so unfair, that he can see her should he wish, and she will never be afforded so free an opportunity. He wears the thing day and night whenever she is near. She knows what he hides and knows it will sicken and disgust her and yet she longs to feel otherwise if just to gain his trust.

At this sorrowful revelation, Christine now cannot take her eyes from him. She studies every crease of his waistcoat and notes it to be not so fastidious as earlier. His tie is askew, his cravat much looser than he likes. He is bent in a most intrigued position before the open pages, graceful hands visible to her as he props the book upon his palms. The darkness slowly grows and yet the firelight casts shapes upon his blank face and she can only see warmth and the potential for something more than what he is and that which he hides from her.

His voice startles her and wakes her from this trange reverie.

"You must be disappointed that this sight does not improve in different lightning," he remarks.

She jumps, suddenly looking right into those striking eyes that had just a moment ago been relaxed and genuine as they traversed the pages. "Erik, you scared me."

He merely blinks. "I am known for that effect."

She cannot suppress a slight laugh, to which he tilts his head confusedly.

"What is it?" she asks.

"You are maddeningly confusing. I make the simplest of observations and you laugh as though I am charming or delightful."

"Well," she said, leaning forward and smiling brightly. "I would not say those words, but you are terribly witty. _Sometimes_."

"Ah. I had gathered that you were ridiculing me."

"Why? Just because I am laughing does not mean it is at your expense…in the negative connotation, anyway!"

"How comforting." He is suddenly melancholy and distant. Resolve within his eyes, as he turns away from her.

His exasperating attempts at dispelling her curiosity would be in vain, for Christine is ever persistent. "And what are you reading so intently, Monsieur?"

His gaze moved down toward the book within his long and spindly hands. "Nothing. A book of poems."

"Are they very beautiful?"

"I suppose they are, in their own way. I have not the inclination to believe that any great work of poetry is droll. All carry a meaning that is captivating to a certain audience, if one takes the time to appreciate them."

"Do they speak of joy or sorrow?"

"It does not matter. Joy and sorrow are thought as antecedents, but it is all merely an illusion. Either is in its whole incomplete without the other. Allure is not defined by jubilance, nor ugliness by sorrow. If in equal measure the two are combined, this melancholy state is truly what aspires above the benign definition of beauty in this world."

It would be wrong to say his words went over Christine's head, but they are so literal and odd to her that she cannot conceal a delighted smile, one which works across her entire face, expanding into her cheeks and the creases in her eyes. "I cannot believe you do not write poetry yourself."

"I have dabbled."

She gasps, enraptured. "I am sure it is wonderful! You must show me."

"An unwise move," he dares, propping himself up into a more erect position than his former had been previously relaxed.

"Truly?" her brow furrows in concern. "Why is that?"

"Like my music, it is unsuitable for your eyes."

At this she furrows her brows in irritation. She chooses to pursue a different topic of conversation to encourage him to speak. "I was not laughing at you, you know. I simply found it…endearing that you love to read so much. And that you forgot about everything else going on around you because you were so—so focused."

He looks at her and is unable to quite grasp her words. With a disbelieving shake of his head, he replies, "The written word has long been one of my few escapes in life."

"Yes!" Christine interjects excitedly, feeling a connection to his words. "An escape from the world and its trials. When I read, I feel as though I am, for just a few moments, not part of this one. I can be someone else, or no one at all, and it is a most wondrous feeling. Though it must make me odd…" she trails off, excitement fading into contemplation. Her eyes flit about once more, remarking on minute details in this flicker of time. For some reason, she focuses upon the lower lip protruding from beneath the mask that Erik wears and watches it move with his soft and melodious speech.

"Odd you must be, since you are still here," he says in a tone almost hopeful. "It is a sin to say, but you remind me much of myself sometimes, Christine Daaé."

A look of wonderment crosses her eyes as they bore into his, for just a moment, and see can glimpse the man beneath. This is what she sought, yet he continually surprises her. Longing turns to laughter. "You truly are a poet for that rhyme must have been intentional!"

"Perhaps," the mischievous glint in his eyes further excites her curiosity. Then his manner takes on a more contemplative tone, and she is filled with anticipation for knowing that he chooses to share more with her. "I have long loved to read, ever since I was a boy," his voice cracks on that last part. "My mother did not like me around the house, so I stayed in my room and lived through pages. Of all sorts, mind you. Tales, such as you like, but also knowledge. I learned more from books than life could have taught me. That is, until I left."

"Yes?" she whispers, in absolute awe that he shares this much intimate detail with her; an offering that is not lost on her heart.

He nods slowly. "I took great efforts to retrieve new material. At night, when she was asleep I would find a way to sneak down the staircase to the parlor and slip away something new. Once I did so when she was sitting in the very room sipping tea with a guest! Oh, she would have been furious, had been able to catch me."

Christine began to laugh, gasping with delight at this strange tale of an Erik she had always hoped to exist, yet was never allowed to see. One like a child, inventive and curious and...so much like her.

She then noticed upon the very tips, very edges of his lower mouth, the crease of a smile. A flighty thing, so brief and yet perhaps the most genuine she would ever see. He turns to look at her and within short seconds it dissolves. His eyes look fearful, exposed, and he looks away with a tightened jaw. It is as though she is a devil that has tempted his reaction and defeated him.

"Erik," her voice rises, gripping his hand all of a sudden out of some unknown impulse. Fingers upon soft leather that are so deceptive to the cold beneath. Her searching glance is satisfied. "You are afraid to smile."

He makes no reply. They both know she speaks true. He is bitter. Christine is aggravated so keenly, for how impossible he is and for the truth that he will surely close himself off to her now, after such attempts to become closer to him!

No more words are spoken, but out of righteous determination, Christine reaches her finger towards his lip, and graces it so gently with her touch that it might as well have been a breath of air. Yet the impact is obvious when he suddenly shudders, although he tries to contain it, and not daring to look within her gaze he instead looks fixedly upon their touching skin beneath the ridges of his mask.

She is too good for him, much too good and he knows it. He cannot bear to look into her eyes for they condemn him with a loving gaze, as she damns him with her gift of touch. He cannot bear the load that comes with receiving what he can never deserve.

"Why do you not allow yourself a smile? To laugh as any other?" her voice practically sings in the softest octave. Her finger works its way just beneath the fold of the mask and upon the crease of lip where it briefly twisted upwards. She can only feel his breath upon her fingers as a reply.

"It is because you are so pained inside, is it not? Because you think that a single show of happiness could destroy you. You like it that way. 'Tis much safer to feel nothing than to allow yourself to hurt. Very true, but more miserable yet."

His breathing turns to angry tempests. She can see the slow and deep exhalations in his chest. His eyes are closed tightly, his jaw clenched so much it must throb, she has struck the deepest of nerves within him and it resounds through his entire body. She is broken now, seeing herself in him as he has claimed and unable to withhold any longer. "I know that is what you think, because how I have felt it! Every second of every day putting on a face for others. I too have worn a mask for years! Until I realized that it was best to be gone with it. It is best to hurt and love than live life with no joy, no depth of feeling."

She is left gasping for air after her revelation, a release of hidden feelings she has never told to anyone. No one knows this side of Christine. They see a sweet girl, a talented performer, a scandalous prima donna. Whatever they wish is what she mirrors, and she is sick of it. She long has not felt brushed by feeling since her father's death.

Suddenly, a hand encloses around hers, pulling the innocence which had just touched his lips to them once more, breathing so slightly, just out of reach, examining their every detail. "Your father," he whispers, hovering over her fingers. A chill goes up her spine at such nearness but she cannot look away. "Christine…so broken and it is not right. That you should feel as Erik does, in any sense. A curse…one you have overcome that I cannot. _I cannot_ ," he chokes, and she sees the rim of glistening tears in one of the holes from which his eyes are shown. "Oh _God_." And suddenly he presses his lips to her fingers, to the palms of her hand, desperation marred with tears that fall and taint her warmth and light. Softness and sinful need conveyed by such demented features. "I cannot but admire you," he gasps before reverently tucking her soiled skin within his gloves.

She does not feel worthy of his admiration. How could she be seen as strong for moving through her pain when still, so often, she would lapse just as Erik does now? This reason alone compels her to allow him such a privilege. He has already given _her_ one by removing a much more formidable mask of his by granting her so pure a smile.


End file.
